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- Вирджиния Вульф
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- Миссис Дэллоуэй
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- Стр. 28/96
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By
conviction
an
atheist
perhaps
,
he
is
taken
by
surprise
with
moments
of
extraordinary
exaltation
.
Nothing
exists
outside
us
except
a
state
of
mind
,
he
thinks
;
a
desire
for
solace
,
for
relief
,
for
something
outside
these
miserable
pigmies
,
these
feeble
,
these
ugly
,
these
craven
men
and
women
.
But
if
he
can
conceive
of
her
,
then
in
some
sort
she
exists
,
he
thinks
,
and
advancing
down
the
path
with
his
eyes
upon
sky
and
branches
he
rapidly
endows
them
with
womanhood
;
sees
with
amazement
how
grave
they
become
;
how
majestically
,
as
the
breeze
stirs
them
,
they
dispense
with
a
dark
flutter
of
the
leaves
charity
,
comprehension
,
absolution
,
and
then
,
flinging
themselves
suddenly
aloft
,
confound
the
piety
of
their
aspect
with
a
wild
carouse
.
Such
are
the
visions
which
proffer
great
cornucopias
full
of
fruit
to
the
solitary
traveller
,
or
murmur
in
his
ear
like
sirens
lolloping
away
on
the
green
sea
waves
,
or
are
dashed
in
his
face
like
bunches
of
roses
,
or
rise
to
the
surface
like
pale
faces
which
fishermen
flounder
through
floods
to
embrace
.
Such
are
the
visions
which
ceaselessly
float
up
,
pace
beside
,
put
their
faces
in
front
of
,
the
actual
thing
;
often
overpowering
the
solitary
traveller
and
taking
away
from
him
the
sense
of
the
earth
,
the
wish
to
return
,
and
giving
him
for
substitute
a
general
peace
,
as
if
(
so
he
thinks
as
he
advances
down
the
forest
ride
)
all
this
fever
of
living
were
simplicity
itself
;
and
myriads
of
things
merged
in
one
thing
;
and
this
figure
,
made
of
sky
and
branches
as
it
is
,
had
risen
from
the
troubled
sea
(
he
is
elderly
,
past
fifty
now
)
as
a
shape
might
be
sucked
up
out
of
the
waves
to
shower
down
from
her
magnificent
hands
compassion
,
comprehension
,
absolution
.
So
,
he
thinks
,
may
I
never
go
back
to
the
lamplight
;
to
the
sitting-room
;
never
finish
my
book
;
never
knock
out
my
pipe
;
never
ring
for
Mrs.
Turner
to
clear
away
;
rather
let
me
walk
straight
on
to
this
great
figure
,
who
will
,
with
a
toss
of
her
head
,
mount
me
on
her
streamers
and
let
me
blow
to
nothingness
with
the
rest
.
Such
are
the
visions
.
The
solitary
traveller
is
soon
beyond
the
wood
;
and
there
,
coming
to
the
door
with
shaded
eyes
,
possibly
to
look
for
his
return
,
with
hands
raised
,
with
white
apron
blowing
,
is
an
elderly
woman
who
seems
(
so
powerful
is
this
infirmity
)
to
seek
,
over
a
desert
,
a
lost
son
;
to
search
for
a
rider
destroyed
;
to
be
the
figure
of
the
mother
whose
sons
have
been
killed
in
the
battles
of
the
world
.
So
,
as
the
solitary
traveller
advances
down
the
village
street
where
the
women
stand
knitting
and
the
men
dig
in
the
garden
,
the
evening
seems
ominous
;
the
figures
still
;
as
if
some
august
fate
,
known
to
them
,
awaited
without
fear
,
were
about
to
sweep
them
into
complete
annihilation
.
Indoors
among
ordinary
things
,
the
cupboard
,
the
table
,
the
window-sill
with
its
geraniums
,
suddenly
the
outline
of
the
landlady
,
bending
to
remove
the
cloth
,
becomes
soft
with
light
,
an
adorable
emblem
which
only
the
recollection
of
cold
human
contacts
forbids
us
to
embrace
.
She
takes
the
marmalade
;
she
shuts
it
in
the
cupboard
.
"
There
is
nothing
more
to-night
,
sir
?
"
But
to
whom
does
the
solitary
traveller
make
reply
?
So
the
elderly
nurse
knitted
over
the
sleeping
baby
in
Regent
's
Park
.
So
Peter
Walsh
snored
.
